Nothing But Noise
by Event Horizon-Argus Black
Summary: A dark fic. About Iori. Written in a dark state of mind. Finished.
1. Grey Skies

The characters in Digimon® are not mine. The plot and story  
lines are not mine. Nothing whatsoever that falls in the  
category: Digimon - is mine. And I'll add a vague warning to  
those with sensitive or innocent ideas about the world to stay  
far away from this fic. There, that was pretty blunt.

  
  
  
  


Iori fiddled with the torn edge of a faded picture. Once, it had been a happy picture. A man kneeled on a beach, the waves gently lapping in the background. To his chest, he held a small baby. The baby was laughing, as babies do, at a blurred figure running from the camera to join the portrait. It was his mother. So poor a picture, he was curious why she didn't throw it out long ago. When she finally did, he salvaged it and stuffed it in his wallet. He set it on the hardwood floor, carefully squaring its edges with pages of paper. He reached up to the bed for a kleenex. The photo had to be cleaned: it was smeared with blood. Trembling, he first wiped clean his fingers, then the picture. He threw the red tissue in the trash. Perfect. Finally, everything was perfect. He'd cancelled his classes at the community college. His back account was emptied - donated to a rescue workers' fund. The apartment was clean, the bills paid, everything in order. A hand written note lay beside the picture, letters running together. Not his fault - the poor quality ballpoint had messed up. But the picture - yes, it was the picture - was the last piece of the puzzle. And he'd managed to screw that up by staining it.

"I'm so sorry, father... I've brought shame..." He couldn't get it out, eyes overflowing and drowning his words. His plea. Pleading with the dead for clemency, absolution. He'd always been a small child, but big on the inside. Now all grown up, he was big on the outside. However the child he'd driven away - trying to be stronger than he was - was making him weak. Causing the everyday inconveniences to evolve into towering demons of inevitability. Making him fight back - at himself. Stepping outside the apartment building was a struggle. People were everywhere, judging him. Laughing to themselves. He was never good enough for himself - why should anyone else feel different? Just walking down the street made him feel awkward. Even if no one else was around. Then it was the hallways in the building itself. His sanctuary had been reduced to the rooms he could lock from others. The curtains were drawn, pursed together with clothespins. Iori lowered his head to the cold floor. The white painted walls were beginning to swirl. He hadn't been outside for four days. Last he knew, it was partly cloudy. He assumed it still was. The stale air was pulled in gasps through his open mouth. The tired lids blinked slowly, shedding their last tears. His right hand, blood renewing its presence, reached to the open straight-edge razor. Up until last spring, it had belonged to his grandfather. Soon, it would belong to no one. Such a beautiful blade, he folded it back inside the ivory handle. Its task complete, the hand returned and curled under his chest. Blackness began spinning spider webs on the corners of his vision. And he began to sing.

"You are my sunshine, my only sunshine," Softly, very softly, he breathed life into the old lullaby. "...when you're not happy... my skies are grey..." His ribs quaked violently, immune system still fighting the retreating cold. "...you'll never know, dear, how much I... loved you..." He would've sobbed, had he still cared. "...please don't take my sunshine away..." Exhaling deeply, Iori fell asleep.

  
  
  
  


EH: Amazing what instant mashed potatoes and Paul Mac can  
conjure up.  
Izzy: Who's Paul Mac?  
EH: OH! You don't know who he is?  
Izzy: sweatdropping / Not really.  
EH: He's only the greatest electronica artist EVER! (buy  
his CD!)  
Izzy: Yeah, that was real inconspicuous...  
Iori: Hey! Down here! jumps to get attention /  
How old was I, anyway?  
EH: Eh, maybe 19... 20?  
Iori: Really? I'm gonna live THAT long? I thought I'd  
die in a bungee jump gone awry at the tender age of 15.  
Izzy & EH: BUNGEE JUMPING?  
EH: You never fail to astound me, Hida.


	2. In Your Wake

This is and will be the only follow-up to this story. I have WAY to  
many papers to write and OTHER stories to update.  
Well, if I get enough reviews, maybe I will... winks slyly at the  
reader /  
For those who care, this contains light Takeyako and Daikari. I don't  
highly approve of these pairings, but just couldn't help myself... sorry...  
By the way, I don't own Digimon or the poem In Blackwater Pond by  
Mary Oliver.  
  
Go on, this chapter isn't going to read itself!

  
  
  
  


It was indeed partly cloudy. The sun broke through the watery veil at the most inappropriate times, laughing at their solemnity. Black gauze draped over a mass of purple hair, masking its joyful color.  
  
Why?  
  
That was the question never spoken, the one that resounded through every mind in attendance. Never mind the overwhelming statistics for young male suicides, forget about the prevailing hectic pace of the nation. Close family members and friends had read the pages spotted with blood. They spelt out all the pain and pressure he felt plainly - what he would never say. Could never say. He wouldn't be Iori if he was so open.  
  
But he wasn't Iori anymore.  
  
Miyako tightened her lips, trying to keep from crying aloud. She was the failure, failing to recognize the agony of her best friend. Next to her sat a shell-shocked Takeru. Unable to cry, he stared lifelessly at the ground. Reliability. Iori was always someone you could depend on. Was that _why_ he kept his pain inside? Everyone depended on him, so he wasn't able to depend on anyone else? Why?  
  
Kari, more in control of her emotions than she thought possible, now stood at the front of the mourners.  
"...the black river of loss  
whose other side  
is salvation,  
whose meaning,  
none of us will ever know.  
  
To live in this world  
you must be able  
to do three things:  
to love what is mortal  
to hold it  
against your own bones knowing  
your own life depends on it;  
and, when the time comes to let it go,  
to let it go."  
  
She glanced down at Daisuke. Wishing she hadn't. Tears formed at the corners of her eyes as she realized he was sobbing silently. Dais never cried. He was macho, the carefree sports star... She nodded slightly to the minister as she walked back to her seat. The funeral continued, but she wasn't listening. One hand rested lightly on his knee, and Daisuke started, staring up into Kari's eyes in surprise.  
  
Something was there that hadn't ever been before. Fear? But their courageous leader never showed fear! Not when buildings burned around them in the digital world, not when the real world was slowly devoured by darkness...  
  
But then again, he never cried either.  
  
Kari removed her hand from his leg, wrapping it instead around his shoulders. Casting his eyes to the ground again, he held her free hand in his. Fear. Fear because his little army wasn't whole? Fear because maybe it was his fault - he'd always overlooked the youngest member? Never gave him responsibilities when he could handle them, and too many when he couldn't? Fear because no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't and didn't want to imagine Hida with a blade pointed at himself? Knowledge had been his other crest. So why wasn't he smart enough to see how he'd impact the people who cared deepest for him? Didn't he know there was more than one solution? Couldn't he see how much he DID have going for him?  
  
Kari squeezed his hand back, feeling lost and confused. How was she supposed to console the brown-haired man if she couldn't make sense of it herself? She didn't want to be here anymore. The sad faces, the silence. The half open casket - hands and wrists strategically hidden. To her right, someone stood, exiting across the grass quickly. Another form stood, unsure of what to do. Kari turned her head out of curiosity. Miyako was gone, Takeru walking away slowly, guilt in every footfall.  
  
Miyako slammed the church doors behind her, locking out the sunshine and the singing birds and her dead friend. Tears fell down her face unbidden. They didn't know him! All they were doing was using the last few months - the worst months of his life - to paint a picture of a man she hadn't ever met. This _wasn't_ Iori. Not her friend, the one she'd known since elementary school! Not him.  
  
He'd always been a sad little fatherless boy, but the fidgeting, terrified of everything around him persona he'd used in the end just wasn't the real him - brave and confident in the worst of situations. It just wasn't! The other half of the double doors opened beside her, breaking into her desolation. Takeru didn't say a word, didn't need to. He closed the door, shutting out the fakers, wrapping his arms around her. For a moment, everything was silent. He rested his head in her hair, and she broke down.  
"It...i-i-it just isn't fair! Iori wouldn't...He, he didn't...He- ...Oh, Takeru..." She turned around in his embrace, clutching his suit jacket tightly and hiding her face against it. "Why? Why did he..."  
  
But everyone knew why. No one wanted to admit the dark truth.

  
  
  
  


EH: Okay, that's it. You can all go home now.  
Iori (very much alive and well): Wait. Was my funeral outside?  
It kinda seemed that way...  
EH: Yeah, I wasn't too clear on that. My mistake. sweatdrops/ Yes,  
my little Hitler youth, it was outside.  
Iori: HITLER YOUTH?! Where the ef did you get that from?  
Izzy: He he! That would be me. I eavesdropped on some other authors,  
and they all think you look weird.  
Iori: pouting I don't, do I? </pouting  
EH: <sweatdropping, again! / No, no! Of course not! (to  
Izzy) Way to go! Hurt the poor little guy's feelings!  
Izzy: Eeep.

  
  
  
  


EH: Yeah, and just in case you were curious...  
  
"In Blackwater Pond" by Mary Oliver  
  
Look, the trees  
are turning  
their own bodies  
into pillars  
of light,  
are giving off the rich  
fragrance of cinnamon  
and fulfillment,  
the long tapers  
of cattails  
are bursting and floating away over  
the blue shoulders  
of the ponds,  
and every pond,  
no matter what its  
name is, is  
nameless now.  
Every year  
everything  
I have ever learned  
in my lifetime  
leads back to this: the fires  
and the black river of loss  
whose other side  
is salvation,  
whose meaning,  
none of us will ever know.  
To live in this world  
you must be able  
to do three things:  
to love what is mortal  
to hold it  
against your own bones knowing  
your own life depends on it;  
and, when the time comes to let it go,  
to let it go.


End file.
